The entire battle had unfolded with astonishing speed.
From the moment Eddard Karstark had spurred his cavalry out of the forest, to the instant his magical arrows and battle-axe had felled five enemies, and finally, to the capture of Earl Randyll Tarly and the acquisition of the ancestral sword "Heartbreaker," only minutes had passed.
Yet in those fleeting minutes, the soldiers of House Tarly had reacted with remarkable efficiency. All except the cavalry ordered to intercept Eddard moved swiftly under the clear commands of their officers.
"Assemble! Third platoon, single file!"
The infantrymen, shields strapped firmly, spears gripped in readiness, fell into tightly packed, disciplined ranks. They moved quickly along the King's Road and the surrounding open ground, raising clouds of dust that seemed to mark the battlefield with gray and ochre. Every officer, calm and experienced, shouted precise orders, coordinating formations with military precision.
Eddard observed it all from atop his warhorse. He had already achieved his primary objective—the capture of Randyll Tarly—and had no reason to linger. If Roose Bolton had not fled so decisively, perhaps he might have considered pursuit. But the man had vanished into the mass of infantry before Eddard could act. The Northern cavalryman smiled faintly under his helmet; there was nothing more to be done on that front.
Brandishing the Valyrian steel sword he had just claimed, Eddard urged his horse into a weaving, deadly run across the battlefield. Spear tips, swords, and shields were no match for "Heartbreaker." The intricate patterns on its blade shimmered even as it cleaved through iron-bound shields, wooden spear shafts, and steel swords. Flesh and blood—neck, arm, and thigh—were no match either. Even the heads of horses were severed with a single, precise swing.
With each strike, Eddard felt a growing admiration for the weapon. It was light yet impossibly strong, capable of cutting through anything that stood against it without leaving a single chip or scratch. The battlefield became a blur of motion: splintered wood, shattered steel, and the cries of the dying. Blood splattered across his armor and that of Randyll Tarly, slumped forward in unconsciousness, yet "Heartbreaker" gleamed brighter than ever.
Eddard quickly rounded up his scattered forces. Many of his men were entangled with the enemy, and their numbers had been halved in the chaos, but there was no time for grief. Shouting, "Follow me!" he urged the survivors north along the road. This was no longer an engagement—it was a full retreat to preserve the lives of his remaining soldiers and to secure his prize.
Ahead, the Tarly infantry had formed three dense ranks, shields forward and spears bristling like a hedgehog. They slowly converged, attempting to block Eddard's path and trap his cavalry. But just as the lines threatened to close, a roar erupted from the eastern forest.
Berry Dondelion had arrived. His cavalry had made a sweeping semicircle through the open ground and now launched a rear attack against the Tarly formations. The impact shattered a section of their line before they could even react.
"Well done, Earl Berry!" Eddard shouted, laughing as he guided his mount past him. The thundering hooves of his horse scattered enemies, causing secondary damage to soldiers already toppled by Berry's charge. The Northern cavalry who had completed their flanking maneuver slowed slightly, turned their mounts, and followed Eddard's lead. Strike and retreat, never linger.
The battlefield behind them was chaos incarnate: broken shields, shattered spears, the cries of the wounded, and officers cursing as they tried vainly to rally their soldiers. Eddard's eyes remained fixed on the path ahead. Minutes later, the Northern cavalry encountered another force—a small vanguard from House Tyrell.
The soldiers of Highgarden, golden roses emblazoned on verdant green surcoats, had been marching quietly when the sound of battle reached them. Helmets donned and chainmail fastened, they saw a charging unit of Northern cavalry bearing down. Their officer barked frantic commands: "Assemble! Form up!"
But it was too late. Eddard's men were upon them before they could fully arm themselves. A storm of steel and hooves left behind a trail of corpses and spilled blood. Without slowing, Eddard guided his forces toward the forest, where the trees would provide cover and slow any pursuit.
The forest path was narrower and overgrown with branches and thorny bushes. Warhorses could no longer gallop at full speed, and missteps could result in heavy branches striking riders or animals leaving unpleasant surprises on the path. Still, the Northern forces moved steadily. They were in familiar terrain now, and the enemy cavalry did not follow immediately, perhaps deterred by the darkness and density of the trees.
Eddard seized the opportunity to glance upward, observing the battlefield below through his magic companion, Blackwing. The sight was astonishing. Wildlings, ragged and poorly armed, poured from the forest, scavenging weapons, helmets, and shields. They were not fighting; they were desperate, grasping at anything they could carry. Behind them, Tarly infantry advanced cautiously, attempting to drive off the scavengers, while cavalry reinforcements slowly arrived from the rear. Officers were clustered around Dickon Tarly, shouting, gesturing, and arguing vehemently.
Roose Bolton watched from a safe distance, his pale eyes cold, analyzing the chaos with the detached curiosity of a predator.
Eddard's vision of the battlefield ended abruptly as the duration of Animal Friend expired, forcing Blackwing to return. The raven lingered momentarily, cawing in apparent satisfaction at the Northern success before soaring away.
Light rain began to fall, first in sparse drops, then heavier, soaking the leaves and turning the forest path muddy. Eddard draped a thick black wool cloak over himself and tied Earl Randyll securely to his horse, covering both with protection against the rain. Losing such a valuable prisoner now would have been catastrophic. The rest of his men donned their cloaks, bracing for the chill and wet of early autumn.
Randyll's head rose slightly. His voice, muffled from weakness, carried a note of reproach. "Boy, you risked so many good soldiers' lives just to take me. Don't you think it was a loss?"
Eddard was mildly surprised. He had expected both Tarlys to face capture with dignity, not quibbling over strategy or casualties. He met the elder lord's gaze calmly.
"Lord Tarly, your renown spreads across the Seven Kingdoms. Even I, facing ten thousand of your troops, could not guarantee a victory at Twin River City. But with you in my custody, those ten thousand soldiers are effectively leaderless, their effectiveness halved. And I left your son behind. If necessary, I could hang you at the city gates and see if he still desires to attack!"
The soldiers around him murmured in approval. One man could indeed be worth thousands if his capture demoralized the army.
Eddard continued, voice rising: "None of my warriors are cowards. Every one of them can hold their own against three of your Reach men. Even if they are wounded or sacrificed, their families will be cared for. There is no loss here, Lord Tarly."
Randyll managed a weak retort. "My son is an excellent warrior. He will not abandon his mission for me. He will take Twin River City and remove your so-called King of the North. Just wait!"
"Then wait, Lord Tarly," Eddard replied simply, spurring his mount deeper into the forest path. His soldiers followed closely, silent and disciplined. The trees enclosed them, hiding their retreat, protecting their prize, and marking the beginning of yet another calculated Northern victory.
Through the rain and the forest, the Northern cavalry disappeared into the green shadows, leaving behind a battlefield of chaos, blood, and shattered plans—a testament to the swiftness, cunning, and deadly precision of Eddard Karstark.
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